Later in the evening Sommers found Miss Hitchcock alone, and explained to her that he should have to leave in the morning, as that would probably be the last chance to reach Chicago for some days. She did not urge him to stay, and expressed her regret at his departure in conventional phrases. They were standing by the edge of the terrace, which ran along the bluff above the lake. A faint murmur of little waves rose to them from the beach beneath.
"It is so heavenly quiet!" the girl murmured, as if to reproach his dissatisfied, restless spirit. "So this is good-bye?" she added, at length.
Sommers knew that she meant this would be the end of their intimacy, of anything but the commonplace service of the world.
"I hope not," he answered regretfully.
"Why is it we differ?" she asked swiftly. "I am sorry we should disagree on such really unimportant matters."
"Don't say that," Sommers protested. "You know that it is just because you are intelligent and big enough to realize that they are important that—"
"We strike them every time?" she inquired.
"Laura Lindsay and Caspar would think we were drivelling idiots."
"I am not so sure they wouldn't be right!" She laughed nervously, and locked her hands tightly together. He turned away in discomfort, and neither spoke for a long time. Finally he broke the silence,—
"At any rate, you can see that I am scarcely a fit guest!"